


Nothing New

by aspermoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Disfigurement, Gen, Introspection, Jossed, Scars, Season 1 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scars are nothing new to John Watson. He has a laundry list of them. So why is this one such a problem?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing New

Scars were nothing new to John. They were like old friends, like brothers in arms, familiar, intimate: he had a veritable list of what, where, when and how he got this one, that one, those ones.

A thin line of scar, almost invisible, on the right-hand side of his abdomen: ruptured appendix removed at four years old.

A long rough line across his forehead at the hairline: split his head open when he fell out of a tree on his twelfth birthday.

A short, thick line on his left thumb: accident with a chisel whilst doing carpentry at school, aged fourteen.

Three near identical scars stacked on top of each other on his left arm: burnt himself with the iron numerous times in his early twenties.

Then there was a quiet spell where it seemed that his time-honoured hobby of collecting bodily injuries had come to an end. Until, of course:

One circular mark high in the left shoulder, completely out of his line of sight except when using a mirror: shot in Iraq, age thirty-eight.

But that wasn't the last one. Oh, no.

A little more than three months ago, he'd moved in with Sherlock Holmes. Taken to joining him on his occasionally dangerous and often completely bizarre investigations. Started to settle down.

Then came Moriarty. Five riddles. Five bombs. Two explosions.

One old lady lost her life. One John Watson lost his face.

The final scar – a webbed mass across the left side of his face, obliterating one eye, rough in some places and smooth in others, like half-melted wax: the bomb going off at that swimming pool. Thirty-nine.

John had thought scars were nothing new to him, but he was wrong. This was different. It wasn't just a little mark or a raised line somewhere that couldn't be seen.

This was out in the open for all to see, something that couldn't be hidden no matter how much he wanted it to.

This was children staring, horrified looks, people avoiding eye contact with him in the street.

This was looking in the mirror and not recognising the person looking back any more.

And he could easily have blamed Sherlock for it all, but to his surprise, he found that for the most part, he couldn't. It wasn't Sherlock's fault. He'd done all he could to save both their lives. He couldn't have known that the cost of their lives would be _this_ , the loss of a face, the hairline fracturing of an identity. And even if he had, he would have done it anyway. That was Sherlock's way. The human element wasn't important to him. The way John _looked_ wasn't important to him. He just seemed to care about John being around, and John wasn't going to argue.

And yet there was still one small part of him that thought differently. A little part that wished he had never met Sherlock in the first place, or that he had gotten out when he was still whole, or that Sherlock could have sacrificed himself instead. _I would have done it for you_ , he wanted to say. _Why couldn't you do it for me?_

In the end, though, John just had to face up to things – so to speak – and deal with it. After all, scars were nothing new to him: they were like old friends, like brothers in arms. Familiar. Intimate.

Nothing new.


End file.
